


in our hands now (feel the gravity between us)

by enbyboiwonder



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: (kinda), Angus MacGyver has ADHD, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Nonbinary Angus MacGyver, Nonbinary Character, Other, POV Second Person, Pining, Proposals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 17:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18627562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbyboiwonder/pseuds/enbyboiwonder
Summary: You haven't found the courage yet to ask them out, but you already know that Mac's the person you want to marry—you have, maybe, always known.





	in our hands now (feel the gravity between us)

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write something soft and sweet.  The soundtrack to this is [Yellow](https://youtu.be/yKNxeF4KMsY) by Coldplay and [Temporary Love](https://youtu.be/3dbdzbGED5Q) by Ben Platt (partially because that's what I've been listening to on repeat lately and also I love them).  Title inspired by lines from Temporary Love.
> 
> This is basically [chased the sun and traced the stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18566230) but macdalton, and I am utterly unashamed.

It's an ordinary post-mission evening of relaxing at Mac's house when you realize it, when you know for sure.  Bozer's out with Leanna, so you cooked, just something quick—it was either that or takeout, since Mac still can't cook worth a damn, despite their insistence otherwise.  (To their credit, they have yet to burn down the house, or even the kitchen, but you ain't taking any chances.  Today may've been all right, but it was a long few days before that, in which y'all'd flown over part of Egypt and then very nearly got poisoned.  The curse is real.)  The two of y'all eat on the couch, watching reruns of the original MythBusters.

You can't tell if Mac's seen these episodes before—they mutter lowly to themself at various points as if they have, and you can catch snatches of technical and scientific terms that mostly go over your head alongside things you've heard mentioned in the episode, but Mac has enough physics and chemistry know-how that you're sure they could predict the outcome of most of this stuff if they haven't seen it.  But, hell, at this point, you're not even sure if  _you've_ seen these episodes before: you're watching the cogs turn in Mac's head more than you are the show, basking in the warm feeling of affection that curls in your chest as you do.  You love watching them think, when you have the luxury.

But y'all  _are_ meant to be relaxing, after all, and having their mind whir away at a million miles an hour for nearly four days straight has gotta be exhausting.  You reach out to nudge them gently with an elbow, and they turn to blink up at you, a question in the bright of their eyes.

"Hush, now," you admonish them.  "You're meant to be relaxin'.  You can plan how to  _theoretically_ vaporize things tomorrow."   _Theoretically_ , because you're thinking, of course, about how they accidentally nuked their school's football field in seventh grade, and while you would definitely like to have seen that, Matty would be none too happy if something like that happened again.  Unless, maybe, if it was for a good cause…

Mac chuckles a little, and when they bump your shoulder with their own, they don't move away again, leaning into you, warm and solid.  "Don't worry, I think I can make a small-scale backyard experiment," they say, though it's not as reassuring as they no doubt think it is.  You  _know_ them.  "Also, science  _is_ relaxing."

"When it ain't frustratin' the hell outta ya, ya mean."

"Come on, tell me you aren't at least a  _little_ bit of a pyromaniac."

You regard them for a moment—they have one eyebrow quirked, their expression a little amused, a little challenging, a lot endearing—and your mouth curls up a little at the corners in fondness.  "Yeah," you say softly.

They grin, triumphant, turning their attention back to the TV and settling in more comfortably against your side.

When the next commercial break starts, you're reluctant to get up to put the dishes in the sink like you'd planned—it's comfortable like this; you want to stay like this for as long as you can—but before you can even contemplate the merits of getting up anyway versus staying right here, Mac solves that little dilemma by doing it themself.  They're back hardly a moment later, settling back on the couch closer than before, pressed against you knee to hip to shoulder.  Mac squirms a little, trying to get comfortable again; you shift to wrap your arm around their waist and draw them close, and they settle down with their head resting in the crook of your shoulder with a soft hum of approval, drawing their feet up onto the couch and crossing their arms loosely over their stomach.  You relax farther back into the cushions as they relax farther back into you, and if you can still hear the wheels turning away in their head every so often, well, you know they can't always just shut it off.

By the time the first How It's Made of the night is starting, Mac's breathing has slowed and evened out to something approaching sleep.  They're not there yet—you can still see the drowsy flutter of dusky lashes over their cheeks—but it's not long before they are.  You have the luxury for this, now, too, so you take a minute to just admire them, the soft, honeyed waves of their hair, the jut of their nose, the slight pout to their pretty lips.  Only once you're sure they're asleep do you dare to touch them, reach up to brush their hair back from their brow almost reverently with two gentle fingers, your chest tight with so much that you can't yet put into words.  You don't know how you ever got so lucky as to have them in your life.

"One of these days, I'm gonna ask you to marry me," you murmur softly, ducking your head to press a feather-light kiss to their temple.  One of these days, you're gonna work up enough courage to tell this wonderful man exactly how much they mean to you, and you're gonna love them with your entire being, if they'll have you.  But until then, just being here by their side is enough.  Anything they'll give you, it's enough.

* * *

You wake up lying stretched out across the couch, a blanket draped over your shoulders.  Mac's sitting a short distance away, fiddling with something small in one hand and the wire-cutter tool of their pocket knife in the other, a small pile of paper clips strewn over the surface of the coffee table beside them.

Groaning, you stir and mumble something that's close enough to a "G'morning" as you stretch a little.

"'Morning," Mac answers absently without looking up from their project.  A beat later, they say, soft and earnest, "The answer's yes.  The answer's always gonna be yes."

You sit up and rub at bleary eyes, blinking as you attempt to process that statement through the lingering fog of sleep.  "Wha—"

"Give me your hand," they say, putting down their Swiss Army knife.  You start to offer your right on auto-pilot, but Mac smoothly leans in and takes your left before you can do much more than twitch your fingers.

You watch, breathless, as they slip a ring onto your fourth finger: a wide silver band with an intricate, twisting pattern, looking a little like a Celtic knot.  It fits perfectly, and it definitely took more than one paper clip to make.  As you run your thumb along the ring wonderingly, you barely feel any of the wires' ends, all of them folded over expertly so they won't jab your skin.  You spare a thought to wonder just how long Mac's been up, working on this.

"Of course, you probably want a real one, and I'll definitely buy you one when you're ready to make it official, just, it's what my mind was on, so my hands—"

Gently extricating your hands from Mac's, you reach up to frame their jaw with both hands and lean in to kiss them.  You already have the feeling that this is gonna be your favorite way to shut your favorite genius up, now that you're allowed.  "It's perfect," your murmur against their lips, and you feel them smile just before your mouth is claimed in another kiss.

They slide into your lap, all easy grace and lithe, long limbs, and your hands move down to their hips to steady them, their fingers cool against your neck now as they whisper  _I love you_ s between kisses.  You pull them close, your hands stealing under the hem of their sleep shirt and sliding up over the warm, smooth skin of their back, and respond in kind.


End file.
